The Ghost of 221B Baker Street
by Ink Spotz
Summary: Sherlock believed in the hound for a bit, until his mind was able to, literally, work through the fog. Now Sherlock is in for a ghostly case. Is 221B really haunted by the person that lived there before them? If it's not, who's leaving behind the ominous notes at night that always lead them to a murder nearby? Is this someone's cruel joke? Or is it the ghost seeking revenge?


Chapter 1

"Sherlock!"

No response; the detective continued to act as cool as a cucumber, ignoring the frantic John who was pacing back and forth in front of him.

"Sherlock Holmes! I know you can hear me! Respond!"

A smirk worked its way onto his face then as he slowly opened one eyelid to cast a glance at his agitated friend.

"What seems to be the problem, John? According to your pace and the look of frustration on your face, it's something important."

"Of course it's important, Sherlock!" shouted John, looking as if he wanted to throttle him.

"Well, pray tell, spit it out," said Sherlock.

"Your brother, Mycroft, wishes to see us in ten minutes! His train leaves in twenty! If we are late, you shall miss him and further upset him," said John, a frown appearing on his face. "I still don't think he has quite forgiven you for your latest spectacle."

The "latest spectacle" that John was talking about was probably concerning their latest case. Their latest case had had to do with investigating espionage within Mycroft's branch of the government. Sherlock had solved the case by illegally going through everyone's files, sometimes breaking into their offices to find the information he required. That's why Mycroft was still mad at him. Sherlock had gotten caught breaking into an office, and they had blamed Mycroft, thinking he had told Sherlock to come steal something of theirs, while all Sherlock had been trying to do was gather information. Sherlock had apologized, and had tried to make amends since, but Mycroft was still slightly agitated.

"At least I solved the case for him like he wanted," said Sherlock bluntly.

"Sherlock, come on. What Mycroft could have to tell us could end up being something fairly important," insisted John.

"Alright," said Sherlock with a slight huff as he rose from his seat. "Lets go see what my brother wishes to tell us before he departs."

Sherlock followed John out the door of the flat. Once outside, they hailed a cab, and soon arrived at the station where Mycroft stood on the platform, a suitcase by his side.

"There you two are! My train leaves in five minutes!"

"Well, we're here. What must you tell us before you're off?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft let out a sigh, holding out a note to him.

"What is this?" asked Sherlock.

"The Queen's thanks for your help on the latest case," said Mycroft. "Along with my own. I suppose, though your methods left me with a bunch of problems to solve, that you certainly did find the guilty culprit, and for that, I'm thankful."

Sherlock looked at the note which had now found a home in his hands. Mycroft turned his attention to John, smiling at him.

"And thanks is also to be extended to you, John, for assisting and helping be Sherlock's conscience on the job."

"It was an honor, Mycroft," said John with a smile.

"Well," said Mycroft, picking up his suitcase. "I suppose I should get ready to board my train. I shall see you two again once I return next week, I'm sure."

"I'm sure you will," said John.

He noticed that Sherlock still wasn't replying, and nudged him with his elbow.

"Won't we, Sherlock?"

"Yes, yes I'm certain we will," replied Sherlock, finally looking up from the note to look at Mycroft. "Have safe travels."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a smile, nodding.

"Stay out of trouble while I'm gone, yes? I won't be around to get you out of any sticky situations."

"Like that'll happen," said Sherlock.

Mycroft chuckled as he proceeded to walk off.

"See you two in a week."

Once Mycroft disappeared from view, Sherlock pocketed the note, and walked out of the station.

"Well, that was good. It's nice to see that you two have made amends."

Sherlock nodded.

"We are never mad at each other for very long, John. We have these spats, but soon find a way to resolve them."

A cab pulled up and the two of them got inside to go back to Baker Street. Soon, they arrived back at the flat, and went about the remainder of their day, which consisted of John blogging, and Sherlock creating a make shift lab within the confides of the kitchen. By the time night fell, both of them were exhausted. They both changed into their pajamas and went to their separate bedrooms to get some much needed rest. Sherlock, for once in a long while, was actually sleeping peacefully and soundly before he heard someone whisper his name near his ear.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!"

Sherlock groaned, rolling over in his bed. Normally, he didn't prefer the comfort of sleep, but tonight was one of those nights where he desperately needed some. Whatever John wanted would have to wait. He didn't want to concern himself with whatever troublesome news he had to bring him at so early a time in the morning.

"Sherlock Holmes!" shout whispered John, shaking him hard.

"John, if it's a nightmare...make yourself some tea...," muttered Sherlock, burying his head under his pillow.

"Sherlock! Someone has been in the flat!"

"It was probably just Mrs. Hudson."

"No! I heard someone from my room, and it did not sound like her."

Sherlock let out another groan.

"I'm assuming they're gone now, else you would still be confided to your bed."

"Yes, they're gone. Would you please wake up?!"

Groaning, Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at John, his hair sticking up wildly from his head.

"John, it was probably just a nightmare that you had that made you think that what you were hearing was something more than what it actually was," stated Sherlock.

"Sherlock, there's a note...," whispered John, handing it to him. "That's how I knew it wasn't Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock looked at the note before flipping on a light beside his bed. He took the note from John's hand and studied it in its folded state for a moment.

"You are bothered by this note. Why?"

"Just read it, Sherlock," said John. "Then you'll see why."

Sherlock let out a sigh before he unfolded the note and held it under the lamp in order to read it.

_There was a knock at the door._

_Down the street, she lives no more._

_Dead and gone, her body is all that's left._

_You'd better catch on before you're next._

Sherlock didn't immediately recognize the handwriting. He re-read it several times, noting certain facts like what type of paper it was written on, what type of ink was used, how each letter and word looped together to look like one single line. In the upper hand corner of the note was a scarlet stain, turning the yellowish paper a brown tinge. Sherlock looked at the stain closer, wondering what the substance could be, but having a slight idea what it was.

"Where did you find this note, John?" asked Sherlock as he stood up.

"I'll show you," said John.

Sherlock rose from the bed in his pajamas and followed John out into the other room. He walked over to the desk where his laptop was, and pointed down at the desk. Lying on the desk was the same type of stain, only this time it spelled out their initials. Sherlock flicked on a light to look at the stains more closely.

"Like I said, I heard a noise, and came down to investigate, and found that note."

"What did the noise sound like?" asked Sherlock, who placed the note aside to grab up his magnifier.

"It sounded like a cross between a wail and a moan," said John, "Of the soft variety of course. It sounded quite muffled."

Sherlock just hummed, as he used his magnifier to examine the stain.

"What is it, Sherlock? What's going on?"

"This stain appears to be dark, with the consistency of blood," remarked Sherlock. "Or at least, that's what whoever left the note wants us to believe. The same type of stain is also in the upper corner of the note."

John sank into a chair, clearly looking exhausted. He wiped a hand over his face, looking at Sherlock.

"Do you have any clue who could be doing this to us?"

Sherlock just hummed again, setting his magnifier aside before going toward his shelves to look for a book.

"Sherlock, could you please answer me?" asked a distressed, and obviously tired John. "Obviously you have some sort of theory."

"Yes, you're right, John. I do have a theory."

Sherlock drew a book off the shelf, placing it on the desk as he flipped through the pages.

"So..." said John, waiting for Sherlock to explain. "What's your theory?"

"John, how much do you know about the history of our flat?" responded Sherlock.

"The history of our flat?" asked John bewildered. "I don't know anything. Why? Why is that important, Sherlock?"

"I shall tell you why it's important. I shall spin you a story," said Sherlock, taking a seat at the desk. "The inhabitant that use to live in this flat before either of us took up residence here, was a wealthy man named Parker Stevenson. He was a wealthy man beyond compare. He owned, or had a share, in almost every business in London. He was a bachelor, preferring to live alone in this very flat amid his wealth. He thought that wealth was the only thing that would ever make him truly happy in the world. His excessive wealth helped him to gain enemies rather quickly. It would explain, why, one day, Parker never showed up to work, and when people came looking for him, they..."

"They what, Sherlock?" asked John, who had become entranced by the tale that Sherlock was spinning.

"They found him murdered in this very room," said Sherlock dropping his voice an octave. "A knife was found buried in the center of his stomach. What's worse is that all of his money was stolen by those who had murdered him. Now it is said that Parker haunts this very street, coming back to seek revenge for his wrongful death, and find the money that was wrongly taken from him."

"Wait. Hold up a minute. You think a _ghost _did this?" asked John in disbelief.

"A ghost or someone who is using the guise of the ghost to carry out their deeds," said Sherlock.

He stood up from the chair, shrugging into his coat. He didn't even bother changing out of his pajama bottoms or shirt. He placed a torch into his coat pocket, slipped into his shoes, and opened the door.

"Sherlock, where are you going at this early in the morning?" asked John, stifling a yawn, still trying to let everything that Sherlock had just said soak in.

"I'm going to follow the note. Someone down the street has just been murdered, and if I'm correct in my assumption, in the same fashion that Parker was."

Sherlock opened the door and started to walk down the stairs. John sighed, sliding on his own leather coat and shoes as he followed Sherlock out of the flat. When they got outside, the entire street was silent, still asleep like they should be.

"Sherlock, we don't even know what house, if there is any house, that the murder occurred in," whispered John, trying to rub the lingering pieces of sleep from his eyes.

"Well, I'm sure it'll be easy to find out by the wording of the note."

"By the wording?" asked John, clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle the yawn.

"The note said, 'Down the street she lived no more'. That implies that it is no building in the immediate vicinity, but in fact, is a building that is at the end of the street."

Sherlock started to walk, tucking his hands into his pocket as he walked along. John walked along side him, looking up at the shadows of buildings around them. Soon they reached the end of the street. Sherlock looked at the buildings on either side of them, standing still as he deliberated his next move.

"Sherlock, there are about five different buildings here. How are we to know which one holds the supposedly murdered victim?"

"Shh, John," whispered Sherlock, turning his attentive eyes toward a building to their left. "It's that one.'

"What makes you say that, Sherlock?" asked John as he followed Sherlock toward it.

"Observe the shadow of the door, John," said Sherlock.

The lamp post that stood on the sidewalk near them was casting a shadow of the door across the sidewalk. The shadow of the door was elongated by the light of the lamp post, which showed to both Sherlock and John, that though the door appeared to be shut from afar, that it was in fact ajar slightly.

Sherlock walked over to the door, pressing his palm flat against the door as he pushed it open slightly. He grabbed the torch he had placed in his coat pocket and flicked it on. As his beam of light swept the room in front of them, John clapped his hand over his mouth to keep a scream from coming out.

Lying on the floor of the building, glassy eyes reflecting the beam of Sherlock's light, a knife buried deeply in the center of her stomach, was the body of a dead woman.


End file.
